


From the Gods

by DovK



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blood Drinking, Buffy Wishverse, Confinement, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Imprisonment, Mutual Pining, Relationship Problems, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Subtext, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovK/pseuds/DovK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can't just send her back where she came from. That would be meaningless, dangerous. This vampire -- it's her responsibility. And she will take care of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Basement (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Diverges from canon right at the end of Doppelgangland.
> 
> Setting and (day number) in chapter title.

“This isn’t where I came from. Where I came from wasn’t a basement. There were more humans.” The other girl spoke in the same voice, but the words were wrong, the tone was off. It wasn’t hers.

Willow wrung her hands together, contemplating the mirror image of herself on the other side of the bars. Well, not mirror image. She wouldn’t show up in a mirror. Maybe the spitting image? Gross. There had been enough spit with all the neck-licking. Maybe the evil twin? But they weren’t sisters. They were the same person.

“You’re staring at me.” The mirror-image frowned.

Willow jumped at the interruption. Right! Important things.

“I — I know we said we’d send you back to where you came from.” She walked toward the bars cutting through the middle of the room, stopping face-to-face with the vampire version of herself. “But I can’t do that! Buffy was right. That would have been bad. You would have been back in the world, and then you’d do the biting thing, and the killing thing, and the evil. And I can’t let you do that!”

The vampire Willow stared back, unimpressed.

“I — I changed the spell,” Willow said, her voice thin and high. “Instead of sending you back to where you came from, I sent you here. It’s an abandoned — uh, I’m actually not sure what this place did. It has a big cage in the basement, but in Sunnydale, that means less than you’d think. That’s just sort of normal Sunnydale decor. We’ve got lots of things to keep in cages here.”

“We kept humans in cages.” Vampire Willow sighed and stroked the bars of her cage. 

Regular Willow stared.

“O-okay. That’s… that makes sense.” Willow cleared her throat. “But that’s just what I mean. You’re not the kind of person… vampire… thing that we should just let go. I feel like I need to at least try to help you. We can give Angel back his soul, so maybe I can help you get yours back.”

“Sounds boring. Don’t want to.” The vampire pushed away from the bars and paced to the opposite side of her cell, into the darkness which Willow’s eyes couldn’t penetrate.

Willow resisted the urge to go up to the bars, or try to comfort the monster on the other side of the bars. Comforting vampires was a bad idea. Even if they looked like you, and seemed to be not the worst vampire ever.

“Well… I know it sounds boring. And I know that I probably can’t expect you to help out of the goodness of your heart that you kinda don’t have because it’s not beating. So I… I have a plan.”

The vampire watched from the darkness as Willow pulled out a knife. It thought, for a moment, that the girl would try to attack. It relished the thought. The human looked into the darkness, gritted her teeth… and then pushed the blade against her palm.

Willow forced the blade into her hand for just a moment, then yelped and dropped it. “Ow! Super ow. Why do people always do that cut on the hand thing when they’re doing ritual blood stuff!? Ow ow ow! Okay look here!” She quickly pulled a flask from her bag, and let the blood drip into it, ruby red droplets splashing into the glassware. The vampire’s eyes caught every single fleck of color against the wall of the vessel.

“You seem to have an… interest in me,” Willow said, as if making a grand statement, laying out a case before a wary juror. “And I’m interested in you.”

The silence from the dark was deafening. Willow flushed.

“In a different way than you’re interested. Very different interests! No hands. But… but I’m interested in getting you to work with me. And I have something you’re very… uh… well... “

“Interested in?” the vampire finished dryly.

“Yes. I — I can’t words right now. Okay, enough bleedy.” Willow corked the flask, smearing it with the blood on her hand in the process. The vampire sucked in air through her teeth.

“If you work with me, then you get as much blood as you want,” Willow said. “And — and human blood. Not butcher animal stuff. My blood.”

She couldn’t know what those words meant to her audience.

“Do you want me to dance for it? Be your pet kitten?” The voice from the darkness sounded like a living thing, cornered and dangerous.

“No, I — I just want to make you happy,” Willow answered quietly.

“Depends on the happy,” the voice teased.

The human flushed, and the rush of blood to her face sent the vampire’s fangs on edge.

“I want to — to s-see if I can — if we can work together,” Willow continued, ignoring the taunt. “I just don’t want to kill you. And I want to see if maybe someday we can make you better. And if that better-making can make other vampires get better.”

“Not interested,” the darkness hissed.

“I — I can’t feed you if you don’t agree. And I don’t want you to die.”

“Not interested.”

Willow stood, stunned, for a moment. But no further words came, and so she whimpered, desperate, quietly enough that she thought the monster couldn't possibly hear.

The darkness saw the sound, ensnared it; caught every murmur of the sound, saw every movement of the lips from which it came.

It spoke before it could help itself.

“Fine,” it sighed. It sounded like exasperation.

“Oh! Oh. Really? So — you agree to work with me, and not bite me, and not try and kill anyone?”

A silence stretched out of the darkness. Willow waited, her legs shaking, squeezing the flask in her hand. Blood dripped from her hand onto the floor — _tick, tick_.

“Yes,” the voice spat. “Help. No killing. Boring. Blood now.”

Willow didn’t realize she had been holding her breath. She exhaled, then knelt, and rolled the glass container through the bars. It came to rest halfway between the girl and the monster.

The flask ( _the flask, the flask_ ) — it reeked of her blood, it glowed, it sang, it sparkled, its hymn coursed through her ( _fallen grace of the falling grace_ ) — even from six feet away, lying on a dirty floor, it looked like a piece of heaven had poured from the sky ( _ruby red light_ ) and flowed into her cell — the taste she had been waiting for, ever since she had surprised the girl in the library — the taste of this girl, this tiny, frail creature ( _human, weak, prey_ ), her blood, her life, what made her, what divided her ( _split by iron, spilt by iron_ ), everything she was and could be and had been —

The vampire glanced at Willow, her eyes glittering in the dim light, then at the glass container.

She pounced on it.


	2. Buffy's House (1)

Buffy pushed the bowl of popcorn to the side and leaned back on the sofa. “Ugh. Full. I think I ate half of Iowa’s yearly harvest.”

Willow, sitting on the floor at Buffy’s feet, giggled and hugged her friend’s legs against her chest. “You need it! You have to keep up your energy for slaying and stuff. You can’t beat up the bad guys on an empty stomach!”

“I can’t beat them with popcorn coming out of my nose either…” She paused, grimaced. “Or, I could, but it wouldn’t be pretty.” 

Buffy turned her eyes away from the movie and ran a hand through Willow’s hair, making the redhead close her eyes and hum with delight.

“It’s that point in a Buffy-Willow-Girl-Night where you become a barnacle and just hang on to me, isn’t it?”

“Oh, well… yeah,” Willow admitted. “I think that part started fifteen minutes ago.”

“Knew I should have signed up for the Willow Times newsletter.”

“Ooh! You should!” She wriggled in excitement. “The newsletter comes with a crossword and a jumble puzzle. It’s high-quality journalism and tips on dark magic, mixed with a hefty dose of fun!”

Buffy wrinkled her nose and smiled. “Please tell me there isn’t actually a newsletter.”

Willow turned and stuck out her tongue.

“If there is, though,” Buffy mused, “would it happen to have any coverage of that major hand bandage business? You still haven’t told me what’s up with that.” She took the other girl’s hand in her own and turned it slowly over, looking at the thick cloth wrapping around the palm.

“I — I didn’t? I think I told you.”

“Nope. You definitely suggested we watch old movies and eat popcorn when I asked.”

“That sounds like you!”

“It might have been. Let’s not point fingers.” Buffy frowned. “Especially when that might make your hand fall off.”

Willow took her hand back slowly and fixed her gaze on the floor.

“Well… so, you know that whole thing I can do with pencils and stuff?”

Buffy nodded. “Yep. Flying writing implements are firmly on your resume.”

Willow hung her head. “Sometimes it — it goes better than other times.”

Buffy blinked. “You lost control so hard you stabbed yourself?

“Uh-huh.”

“And you cut your hand in half?” she said slowly.

The redhead nodded silently, looking away.

“Geez, Wil. Never underestimate the power of good ol’ No. 2. I’ve been choosing my stakes wrong this whole time.” 

She sat up, suddenly alarmed, and Willow turned wide-eyed to face her.

“Buffy..?” Willow asked, wondering what she said, what subtle slip she made, that let her friend catch on to the lie.

“Do you think Mr. Pointy heard that?” Buffy murmured, glancing around nervously.

“... I really hope you’re joking.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Buffy nodded, relaxing with a sigh. “I would never forget to put him back in his drawer. He’s out of earshot.” She struck a confident pose and smiled at Willow. “You may safely talk about the glory of Our Lady Ticonderoga.”

“You — you’ve got some popcorn on your boobs.” Willow stared.

“Whoops.” Buffy brushed the offending bit away. “Movie snackage got a little out of control tonight. There’s been some collateral damage.” She fixed Willow with a look. “You didn’t help me with the popcorn at all.”

“I — I’ve been kinda not hungry.”

“Or talkative. Or into telling me about cute things Oz has done. Really, Wil. That’s everything girls' night stands for!”

Willow’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “I have barnacled as well as I ever have! I am clinging at maximum efficiency. Clingy Willow is an essential part of a balanced girl’s night.”

Buffy gave her legs an experimental shake. “Yep. You’re on there pretty tight.” But the look on her face didn’t let Willow off the hook.

The witch sighed and put her head on Buffy’s knee. Her words were almost quiet enough to miss in the sounds of the TV.

“Sometimes I just wonder if Oz and I go well together.” 

This was more what Buffy was waiting for. The blonde pulled Willow easily up onto the sofa — paused to let Willow find a Slayer arm to hold onto — and rubbed the girl’s shoulder.

“Boy troubles?”

Willow hadn’t planned on talking about this. It had built up over weeks, months. She had wished for any escape from the uncomfortable truth about her hand, but… not this escape. The news about Oz just came out on its own. But she couldn't go back now.

She did what she always did: she buried her face in Buffy’s neck, wrapped her arms around the other girl, breathed in deep; when she smelled her the blonde’s shampoo, felt the heat coming off her friend’s body, it was as if a door inside her unlocked. It always worked this way.

“I — I’ve been thinking recently. About me and Oz. And about how those two things — I mean, us, people things — might not… might… not work. So well. And maybe that’s how it is.”

Buffy stroked her friend’s hair. “What isn’t working? Is this because of Xander?”

“Not Xander. He’s a — a symptom. Xander is. Not the reason. It’s — I can’t — everything is wrong. Everything. _Everything_ —”

Before she could stop herself, the tears started coming, and she said her piece in short, muffled bursts:

“Oz is so cute and nice — not sure why I feel like this — terrible girlfriend — deserves better than me — so cute — want to be good to him — feel so empty sometimes —”

Buffy was trained in the art of Willow-reading, but even she only caught snippets. It was enough, though, to form a picture. She held the other girl and listened.

“Try so hard sometimes — feel like I’m broken — can’t find what I’m doing wrong — like I’m just not right — you and Angel never have this —” And then there was just sobbing left.

“Wil, it’s okay.” She spoke in nothing more than a whisper, her lips only inches from Willow’s ear. “It’s never all sunshine and daisies and whatever else. Heck, with Angel, there’s a pretty strict ban on sunshine, and the _one_ time I got flowers, he also gave me a note about how he was gonna kill me.” Buffy furrowed her brow in thought. “Which is a shame. Other than that, they were nice flowers. I was kinda half-wooed.”

“But —” Willow sniffed, ignoring the last comment. “You seem so happy.”

“I am happy,” Buffy admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have doubts.”

“Doubts?”

Buffy sighed. She hadn’t planned on this, either. In fact, she had made a point of avoiding thinking about, talking about, or acknowledging this, in the hopes it would just go away. And she would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for Willow.

“Angel and I are…” She released her friend, sat back a few inches. The girls caught each other’s gaze for just a moment, then Buffy’s eyes dropped as her own tears started.

"He says that it's best if we go our separate ways. And I don't want it. And I'm going to try to convince him otherwise." She said each word clipped, perfect and quiet, like she was reading the news. She breathed deeply, summoned up her final reserve of strength, and managed one more sentence in that balanced tone:

“I don’t think everything’s going to work out.”

She held that composure for just a moment. Then she broke down.

Willow hiccuped back a sob. She didn’t have the right words, and Buffy didn’t need them. She hugged Buffy for everything she was worth.

They held each other for a while as the TV played on in the background.

It would have stayed like that — Slayer and Witch, bound in misery and need — but for the popcorn bowl, in a fit of malevolence, losing its purchase on the sofa and tipping onto the floor.

Buffy drew back slowly, eyes red, and fixed her baleful gaze on the mess of kernels and salt scattered on the floor.

“At least you finished the popcorn,” Willow observed.

Buffy glared at her, then broke into giggles.

And like that, everything was okay.

“Things will be okay.” Willow said.

“Things will. Things are prescription-strength good.”

“You think so?” the witch asked quietly. “Really?”

“Really really,” she affirmed, and squeezed Willow one last time.

“Acgh — Slayer super hug,” Willow wheezed. “Ribs cracking. Miss oxygen.”

“Sorry. Curse of being the Chosen One. Hugs are a problem.”

They sat, smiling at nothing, for a quiet moment.

“Thanks, Buffy.”

“Anytime, Wil. You’re my best friend.” She cast a glance down at her shirt. “You better not have gotten snot on my pajamas, though.”

“Nope. I think it’s all tears and popcorn.”

“Girls' night party mix. Gotcha.”


	3. In the Basement (2, Before Dawn)

Willow had left. _(The girl who bore that name here, stole it from me, took a piece of me and made it her own.)_ The girl who looked like her, talked like her, tasted like her. The girl who ruined her life. _(Saw me, stole me, put me away.)_ She was alone for the night. She hated how much she looked forward to morning.

The bars were too solid to think of escape. They were cold and brittle and tasted like blood. She licked them, one by one, seeing which was the most delicious. She settled on one in the middle. It tasted like it was scared. She sat down against her chosen bar, its flavor still on her tongue _(taste of quarry, caged, trapped — heart pounding, blood keening, screeching)_. 

She leaned her head back against the metal lattice surrounding her, closed her eyes. There was a rat somewhere in the building. She could hear it trying to live. It was engorged with blood. _(Diseased, riddled with love.)_ The vampire listened to it scratching through a wall, somewhere far away. It aggravated her. She made sure to focus on that. It was her only distraction from the thoughts in her head. She built up a loathing for the rodent, an unseen tormentor. She promised it a thousand deaths. _(Each moment of this is death.)_ She swore to eat it, its children, its lovers. She swore to drain its blood slowly, letting it feel every second of its demise as an ever-greater agony.

She knew she couldn’t. She wouldn’t dare taste it. It had been hours since the girl had been here — hours since the demon with her face _(delicate, cruel)_ had spilt her blood. She still couldn’t get the taste out of her mouth. She didn’t want to. She ran her tongue along her teeth, still feeling the oily film the human’s blood had left behind. She shuddered, relieved that she could still feel the girl’s presence, but terrified at how weak the taste had become. Soon she would be without it entirely. The thought made her flinch.

She wasn’t sure what it was that made the blood different. It was from a girl she wanted (not uncommon, but still). It was her own blood (in a sense). It was from her unspoiled soul, honest and open, given willingly _(willingly — oh by the gods, willingly)_. It was from this delicate girl, friend of the Slayer, witch. It was from a brave, courageous human. Any of these would have made it delectable.

But most importantly, it tasted so _dark_.

She could hardly have put it into words. The human had watched her feed, watched her drain every drop from the flask, watched as she probed with her finger to get the blood left coating the inside of the vessel. She had left then, disgusted, unaware of how much the vampire wanted to bless her _(press against her, feel the sin and shame through a thin skin of soul)_. This wasn’t just nourishment, not base feeding. This girl had given her purpose, meaning.

She didn’t know how the girl had that blood in her body. It must have burned. It tasted cruel and filthy; it made her feel depraved as she drank it. She had tortured and killed and delighted in it for years; but this made her feel _corrupt_. She had felt that grim shade under the girl’s skin, back in that library, when she had licked her neck _(pulse and skin, nerve and breath)_ ; but she convinced herself it was a mistake, that the tiny girl could not harbor such cruelty. Now she licked her lips just thinking about it.

What did this girl have inside her? What could possibly haunt that frame, thin and weak, draped in wool?

The vampire twisted, body heated by the thought. She dreamt of what twitching, festering darkness dwelt behind those caring eyes. She _felt_ it, when the girl first entered; she thought it was hate, but it was so much more vivid. The girl looked at her with _wickedness_ , pure, undiluted. And she had almost missed it. Even the human didn’t know it was there.

_Captor, delicious friend. I miss you._

She was sure she had only thought those words until she heard her voice echo off the grey stone around her.

Somehow, giving that idea life was too much _(a flake of ash, drifting down to start an avalanche)_.

She opened her eyes, looked down. Her hands were on her corset. They had found the laces. She flexed her fingers, curled the silk ribbons around them.

She licked her teeth again. Just the smallest hint of malice lingered. 

Her eyes closed once more.


	4. Buffy's House (2, Before Dawn)

The witch snored quietly on the other side of the bed, peacefully asleep after a thoroughly exhausting night of crying and romcoms. 

Buffy didn’t mind. It was kind of a cute snore. Definitely the way a girl like Willow should snore. It just added to the overall adorable picture of a tiny redhead girl in fuzzy pajamas, really. It reminded her that this moment, the two of them in bed together, wasn’t just a dream.

_Eugh. Thinking of sleeping next to Willow as a ‘dream’. Nice one, Buffy. Definitely not super creepy or anything. Keep those hands where I can see them, champ._

She turned away from Willow and stared up at the ceiling, the faint afterimage of the girl next to her dancing on the white plaster. It did no good to beat herself up over the truth. She had spent a year dealing with how Willow made her feel. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, wore it out in the wash and gave it to Goodwill. She was attracted to the girl. It wasn’t some big problem. It was normal teenager questioning-your-sexuality, straight out the Young Adult section at the library.

_Well, it would be, if the library had a Young Adult section. I think it just has a demon section, a vampire section, and… I think a demonic vampire section? Or a vampire demon section?_

There wasn’t much to be done about it, either. She just had to face her problems head-on. She couldn’t even get rid of Buffy-Willow-girl-night to give herself a little space. That was a sacred tradition, and a damn good excuse to watch late-night cable TV in its full, R-rated glory. She wouldn’t deny Willow a shoulder to cry on, even if the warmth of her friend’s body against hers made Buffy’s thoughts take some pretty not-friend-acceptable turns.

_Okay. Once again, not a good place for your head to be going when you’re sharing a bed with the girl. Think about baseball. Or, pretend you know something about baseball, then think about it._

Why would her thoughts have to be friend-acceptable, anyway? There was no good reason for the purgatory she kept herself in. Willow was clearly the sort of girl who wouldn’t judge if Buffy admitted she had… _feelings_. She’d be totally okay with it. She’d be supportive. And she’d smile. She’d say she would give it a chance. And her eyes would do the cute smiling thing they did. And she’d probably hug me, her head tucked against my neck, her lips gently brushing against my skin _oookay_ that’s enough of that.

It wasn’t like they had anything else going on, either. Willow and Oz were apparently on the rocks. Angel was talking about leaving her. What do you have going on nowadays, Buffy? What does she have? Why won’t you just roll over, shake her awake, and say that you’re madly in love with her, you’ve spent the last three years having nightmares that someone hurts her, you’ve been patrolling outside her house every night in case something’s out there, you dream about the life you could have together? Why won’t you just _tell her?_

_Answered your own question there, girl: because you can’t stand the idea of hurting her._

The thought came unbidden, but once there, it wouldn’t leave. She hated that thought. It plagued her. It tasted happiness on the air whenever Buffy let herself dream, and it ripped those hopes to shreds. Once it attacked, the other thoughts followed, like they always did:

_What kind of life would Willow have as my girlfriend?_

_Could we ever live like normal people?_

_Would Willow stay up at night when I was out patrolling, wondering if I’d come back safe?_

_What would happen when I didn’t come back? (It’ll happen someday.)_

_Would she be able to move on, or would she want revenge?_

_Would she stand a chance against anything that could kill a Slayer?_

_Would she die for me?_

By the time the scavengers had picked her fantasies clean, all she had left was herself. 

No Willow. It had to be that way. The thought stung, but she had thought her way down this path before. It only hurt a little by now. We’re talking ‘bad papercut’, tops.

Buffy rolled over to face Willow once more. The other girl slept peacefully, unaware of the struggles inside the head of her friend.

_Screw it. I can't have her, but I can sure as heck snuggle her._

She wrapped an arm around the redhead and edged a little closer to her. Just a little. Just so they were sort of spooning. Nothing creepy.

The witch was warm, soft. Comfortable, if slightly bony. Buffy thought that was fitting. She smelled like fabric softener and store-brand shampoo. Also appropriate. Very Wil.

She buried her face in her friend’s hair, breathed deep. Surprisingly nice. Kind of soothing... 

... made everything feel better, really...

... always worked like that.

She fell asleep before she knew it.


	5. In the Basement (2, Morning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life stuff. Writing resumes.

Willow held the vial in front of her — just a few inches from the outstretched fingertips of the vampire. She could feel the warmth of the monster’s hand on the air.

She gripped the glass tightly, knuckles white. Blood ran down her arm, soaking into her sweater. She felt her arm shaking. The vial felt like it weighed far more than it did. She took a deep, shuddering breath, looked at herself through the bars; the vampire’s face had turned demonic, its eyes predatory, focused on its imminent reward.

The vial slipped and fell from her hand.

Willow’s heart leapt to her throat; she lunged for the glass tube, almost caught it, felt it slip through blood-slick fingers. It danced, once, in the air, then shattered on the ground.

She screamed, enraged, furious; she threw herself at the bars, scrabbling madly at the concrete floor, desperate to get to the vampire, to give her the blood she needed, to feed her, _nourish_ her. The monster just watched her, smirking, and Willow _shrieked_ —

She woke up and bolted upright in bed, as quickly as if signaled by a gun.

Willow sat there gasping for a few seconds, regaining her senses. Light had just begun to seep through the windows. It was probably just around 5. Buffy was asleep beside her, contentedly drooling on her pillow, making the most of a rare night of rest and relaxation.

Even knowing that it was all a dream, the entire experience had felt way too real. She still felt like the monster was watching her from the shadows of the room; she could still feel the cold slime of the concrete cell floor on her hands.

“Eugh, wait.” She wiped her hands on the covers. “That’s sweat. Grossness.”

She laid back down, trying to relax, let herself spend the next couple of hours sleeping. She knew it was pointless, but it was one of those things you just have to try to do anyway if you’re human. (Vampires are definitely evil not because they kill people, but because they don’t like sleeping in on weekends. Fact.)

After a few minutes, Willow sighed and swung her legs out of bed, quietly as she could. She padded unsteadily to her clothes, and she dressed in the dark, shivering.

It was good that she had woken up, really. She had obligations to fulfill.

She was out of the house before Buffy or Joyce woke up, leaving a note to explain her absence.

# ...

It was almost fully light out by the time she got to the abandoned warehouse. She crept down the stairs, half-expecting a vampire mirror-image to leap out from the shadows, but no such un-luck; when she reached the bottom, she saw the demon curled up in a corner, fast asleep.

She was better prepared this time — no more cuts on her palms. She took a razor blade from her backpack, drew it across her upper arm, and held the glass vial below the cut, letting her blood ooze down into it. She was surprised by how easy it was; she was expecting that she’d have to kind of talk herself into cutting herself, but it wasn’t that big of a deal after all. It actually felt a little good, after the sting wore off.

_That’s... kind of weird. Let’s not think about that too much._

Willow shrugged, capped the vial off, and bandaged her arm. The vampire was still asleep.

“How exactly are you supposed to be dangerous if you sleep like a cat?” she asked the huddled form in the cell.

“Not interested in talking.”

“But I have so many witty remarks to make!”

The vampire did not laugh. Or, indeed, even move.

“Okay,” Willow said to herself. “Tough crowd.”

Somehow, without moving or making a sound, the vampire managed to seem both exasperated and enraged. It was, frankly, an impressive mastery of sullen silence. After a moment, Willow sighed and relented.

“Sorry. This can’t be easy for you.”

“I could have killed you in a heartbeat in that library,” the crumpled figure groaned. “Instead I have to listen to you ramble on about cats.”

“Well, I’ll ease up on the cats, but you need to really hold off on thinking about murdering me. I think that’s a good trade.” Willow sat on the floor by the edge of the cell, staying just out of arm’s reach of the bars. “Come on, rise and shine. I’ve got nice, delicious blood for you.”

Now the eyes snapped open, the figure stirred, the bones and flesh jerked to hesitant life. Willow was disturbed, again, by how much the creature looked _just like her_. She was looking in a mirror — a mirror wearing a slutty dress, but a mirror. She could see the exhaustion and stress on her doppelganger’s face, and a tiny, human part of her felt a pang she knew she shouldn’t feel.

“You okay?”

The vampire shot her a look.

Willow shrugged, feeling a bit hurt. “Just asking.”

“Shut up and give me your blood.”

“It’s kind of our blood… um... Willow. Huh. Alright, so I will definitely give you your blood in a teensy little bit,” Willow murmured, “but we need to address the naming situation.”

“Willow,” the monster grumbled. “My name is your name.” 

_What binds us together, what makes us the same; what brings you to me and holds me back; what sings with cold and fetid breath of blood and darkest common death._

_Oooh, that last part rhymed._

“That’s, uh, kind of the problem. What should I call you? Vampire-me? Vampy? Ugh, that sounds stupid.” Willow thought, picking absentmindedly at the hem of her sweater. “Ooh! No, wait, I know, I know! I’m going to call you Vee. Like, Vee-ampire! Or Vampire-meee. Either way works.”

The vampire grimaced. “That’s not my name. That name is stupid. I’m Willow.”

“Yeah,” Willow admitted, “but I’m also Willow, and you’re locked in a cage. I think the rules are pretty clear on who wins this one.”

Vee glowered quietly. “For now.”

Willow smiled. “I bet I can make you agree to change your name.”

“Human,” the beast growled, “you can’t make me do anything.” 

_Resistance or temptation, playing dead or dying? Two truths in one lie._

Willow shook the vial of her blood, smirking. “You sure? Because this blood is awful tasty, and only good girls get to have it…” She tossed it playfully from hand to hand, watching Vee’s eyes trace its path through the air.

“Fine. Vee. Blood.”

“Nuh-uh,” Willow chuckled. “Say please.”

If Vee’s heart worked, it would have skipped a beat. The human was grinning at her, eyes narrowed. She was having _fun_ with this. 

_A glimmer of shade in brightest light, a hint of blood’s profane promise, a taste of wicked, wretched joy._

“Please,” she whispered, before she could stop herself.

“See? That was easy.” Willow set the vial on the floor and kicked it between the bars, sending it skittering to the vampire’s feet.

The vampire picked it up; the glass was warm, its contents thick and heavy.

_It shrieks, even in glass, contained and safe — it calls —_

She unstoppered the vial, hands shaking, and downed it.

“Good girl,” Willow said, smiling. “Now let’s you and me talk about how you became a vampire, shall we?”

#  ... 

Ahem. So yes, I’m here. Hello! I’m apparently providing commentary. I don’t see why it’s necessary, and I’m not even going to be paid for it, but no one else was willing to do it. Xander was supposed to, but he kept blushing and getting inappropriately excited during the naughty parts, so we fired him from Greek chorus duties.

So, this is really interesting and everything — who else just can’t wait to see what that plucky redhead is getting herself into? — but I just have to take a moment to complain. 

Who imprisons a vampire clone in a cell to _learn about it?_ No one! Partially because this situation really doesn’t come up too often, but also because it’s a _terrible idea!_ Vampires are dangerous! A vampire who _has your face_ is probably even worse! Again, this situation is really pretty uncommon, so that’s conjecture on my part, but I stand behind that assessment. Willow, you’re making a bunch of really questionable decisions, and a bunch of people are going to get hurt, and I’m not even going to be able to take _credit_ for it! This is vengeance demon _paradise_ and I’m missing out!

Oh, and if you really _are_ interested in learning, do you know who might have an idea what to do in the event of weird, reality-altering magic going haywire and making a copy of someone? Clue: it’s me! It’s the person who MADE THAT HAPPEN. Really, ex-demon here! I created this whole situation! I know, I used to be one with the forces of Hell, but really, that doesn’t mean I can’t be _helpful!_

But no, let’s just go back to visit the vampire for ‘learning’. This is just like keeping rabbits: nothing good can come of it, and when the fuzzy, nibbling end comes, I’ll be saying ‘I told you so’.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have customers waiting for me, and the customers have money, and the money isn't mine yet. I have to fix that. We'll talk more about how Willow is being stupid later.

**Author's Note:**

> Just started watching Buffy (I know, I know). Can't believe this is a rarepair, especially in the most prolific fandom ever.
> 
> Will continue based on interest. Comments appreciated.


End file.
